Headlights by Marc Justin
His car came up the driveway and stopped in front of the house. He sat there with the headlights on. Mom died six years ago. I went back to bed.
“I walked to Rollins point, Betha.” That was Mom’s name, we never used it in the house. His arm fastened around my ribs and his leg chicken-winged across my thigh. “There was a couple sitting not too far, early twenties, nice looking. The girl had a body like yours.” Whisky breath and moistness were coming through the covers. “Her legs looked like ivory.”
He began to swell at my side. I bit a mouthful of fabric and gagged on the dry taste of linen. He squeezed up against me and deflated into my ear. “You beautiful beast, Betha. My beautiful, beautiful beast.”
He left my room and I went downstairs to turn off the lights. I bolted the door. I set the table for breakfast. I saw his car outside with the headlights on, beaming dimly onto the house.
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About the Author
Marc Justin
Born: Ottawa, Canada
Now Resides: Florence, Italy
Online: www.twitter.com/_MarcJustin_
Bio: Marc Justin studies Creative Writing at Oxford. He also makes photos and songs. His work has recently appeared in Feathertale and The Mays, an anthology of the best new writing and artwork by students from Cambridge and Oxford.
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image by Trish.
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